


Water Lilies

by Claminosity



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hypothermia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-04 02:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16337729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claminosity/pseuds/Claminosity
Summary: Merlin falls into an enchanted lake, naked cuddling ensues.





	Water Lilies

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Livejournal way back in 2009 with the note:
> 
> "Hypothermia!fic, inspired by the perpetually freezing temperature in our flat. I hope y'all enjoy clichés! Set after The Gates of Avalon. I owe the readability of my English and many thanks to my invaluable beta teithiwr."

 There are times when Arthur seriously doubts the wisdom of keeping Merlin in his employment. Standing somewhere in the middle of a forest east of Camelot and wringing out the sleeves of his tunic, he counts the present moment among them. The three things he wishes for are, in order of urgency: a hot bath, a bucketful of mulled wine, and a manservant who could get through a simple hunting trip without falling into an enchanted lake.  
  
    The lake emerged from amidst the trees as if a curtain had been drawn – a lovely clearing lit by the evening sun, the water clear and shallow with willow branches sleepily sweeping at its mirror-like surface. Perfect for watering the horses – or so it seemed. For some reason they wouldn't take more than a careful lick before whinnying restlessly and backing away from the water's edge. Arthur was about to shout out to Merlin, who was perched on a mossy rock with his hand outstretched towards the lake, when the drowsy silence was broken instead by a splash that echoed from the cliffs surrounding the clearing. The next moment he found himself fishing for his servant in unnaturally cold water.  
  
    Now Merlin is sitting on a patch of tall grass, coughing pitifully and looking like a drowned rat.  
  
    “What the hell were you doing diving off that rock anyway?” Arthur says as he hands Merlin his tunic, the sleeves now slightly less wet.  
  
    “There were... I was reaching for...” Merlin coughs. ”...Water lilies.” He peels off the soaked shirt that clings to his skin.  
  
    “Of course you were.” Arthur sighs. “Trust you to go picking flowers in a freezing lake. Let me guess: there's a kitchen maid you're desperately trying to impress? She's not going to appreciate the effort if you die of pneumonia, you know.” (Arthur learned years ago that girls are more likely to find romantic gestures involving heroic measures idiotic rather than heroic.)  
  
    “No, I was g-getting them for G-Gaius. He s-said they're use...ful,” Merlin says, sneezing mid-word.  
  
    “Well, that's obviously worth getting yourself drowned for.” The eye-roll that accompanies this unfortunately goes to waste since Merlin is in the middle of manoeuvring himself into Arthur's dry tunic. His favourite tunic, in fact.  
    “You better not be sneezing on that,” he adds.  
  
    “I'm s-sure your tunic is snotty enough to begin with, s-sire,” Merlin croaks and pats his dripping hair with the hem.  
  
    “Careful, Merlin. You'll owe me until the day you pull me up from a lake, which, as you know, will never come, since I have the common sense not to fall into one.”  
  
    To his surprise, Merlin sputters out a laugh that quickly turns into a cough.  
  
    “I'm glad at least one of us is finding the funny side in this,” Arthur says dryly.  
  
    He gets no reply, though, as Merlin seems to have spent all his remaining energy on coughing. He is hugging himself with his eyes closed and is breathing rapidly, looking even paler than usual – worse than Arthur realised.  
  
    Arthur is suddenly aware that between finding the lake and dragging Merlin from it, the sun has dipped much lower in the sky and its remaining rays are tinted with red. Camelot is not very far, only an hour's journey away if you rode like a madman and didn't worry about exhausting the horses, but it’s far enough that with Merlin in this state they have no chance of reaching it before sundown.  
  
    Arthur silently curses all lake-enchanting sorcerers to a bottomless pit full of giant spiders, and goes to haul Merlin up from his huddled position on the ground.  
  
    “It'll be dark soon. Come on, let's find you somewhere warm. Can you ride, Merlin?”  
  
    Merlin gives him an unconvincing nod in reply.  
  
    “Good. Give me some warning if you're about to fall off,” Arthur says before he more or less lifts and throws Merlin on his horse, wet trousers and all.  
  
    Arthur thinks he saw the opening of a cave a little way back, so he traces their steps into the forest until they come to a rock wall. The cave turns out to be more of a dent in the rock face, but it's canopied by trees and surrounded by bushes and offers some shelter. It will have to do.  
  
    Arthur helps a very stiff Merlin dismount and ties the horses to an ash near the mouth. Since they meant to return to Camelot for the night, they have little by way of supplies. Arthur removes the saddle cloth from his horse to use as something to sleep on, and unties his cloak from the back of Merlin's saddle. He isn't exactly sure why Merlin packed the cloak when they didn't plan on staying the night, but it's good that he did; it's made of warm, woollen cloth and wide enough for them both to sleep under.  
  
    Merlin is oddly quiet. He is still in his soaked trousers and boots, shuddering so violently that the tree stump he's huddling on seems to be shaking.  
  
    “You really need to get rid of those clothes,” Arthur says, worried. Merlin nods and attempts, laboriously, to pull off his left boot. His fingers work slowly, too sluggish to get a grip on anything. After watching him try and fail to open the buckles on his boots, Arthur squats down by him and sets to work on them himself.  
  
    “S-something is very strange about this,” Merlin says, words slurring together, a wan smile on his pale lips, as Arthur tugs off his second boot and closes his hands around his foot, pressing it lightly between his palms to get the blood circling.  
  
    “Don't worry, Merlin, I don't plan on making a habit of it,” Arthur replies, his own voice sounding strangely mild. He only hesitates for a beat before starting to pull at the fastenings of Merlin's trousers, but neither of them has any choice and anyway, Merlin seems too cold and miserable to care about being embarrassed. Arthur still gets the feeling he would blush if he were even remotely able.  
  
    As Arthur wraps Merlin in his cloak, he tries to remember what he has heard Gaius say about treating people in danger of freezing to death. When Sir Daniel was nearly buried by an avalanche some winters ago and the knights carried him back to the castle, Gaius had glared furiously at Sir Bedivere for suggesting that they put him in a hot tub. That's right; he said the body must be warmed slowly, cautiously, or else the circulation of cold blood might overwhelm the heart, causing it to burst. Not that I have any chance here of making that mistake, Arthur thinks nervously.  
  
    Daylight has all but faded now. They need a fire, quickly – not just for Merlin, but to keep any dangerous animals away. Arthur hastily picks up an armful of fallen branches and sticks and piles them as close to the cave's mouth as he can without the smoke getting in.  
  
    It takes him a frustrating moment to find the flint from the saddle bag in the dark, and several more to persuade it to yield a spark. Even then the twigs he has collected are too fresh and slow to kindle. Arthur looks urgently around in the light of the feeble, blue flames, for something drier that might catch fire. He thinks he hears Merlin whisper something, but when he turns around, he is sitting with his eyes closed, oblivious. The fire is burning more brightly, though, eagerly licking up the bundle of sticks and making their shadows flicker on the surface of the rock.  
  
    Arthur spreads the saddle cloth on the floor of the cave and half-carries Merlin to it, settling him to lie with his back to the fire. He is alarmingly drowsy, his skin all but radiating chill through the cloak. Looking at his ashen face, Arthur knows the cloak and the fire won't be enough to warm him.  
  
    “Honestly, the things I'm willing to do for you,” he sighs and begins, resignedly, to undress.  
  
    Merlin opens his eyes when Arthur lifts the cloak and settles beside him, at first leaving a few careful inches between them and then edging closer.  
  
    Arthur puts his arm around Merlin's back and pulls him into his arms. He yelps when his chest comes into contact with Merlin's. “Sweet mercy, you're like an icicle,” he hisses.  
  
    “Sorry,” says Merlin, his voice a strangled whisper.  
  
    “Don't try to speak, Merlin, just... Don't fall asleep either.”  
  
    Arthur wraps his legs around Merlin's, covering as much of him with his own body as he can. Merlin lets him arrange his limbs until he is enveloped by Arthur from shoulder to toe, sheltered like a bird in its nest. His body feels fragile like this, his frame small compared to Arthur's.  
  
    Arthur thinks of the first time they met, of how unafraid Merlin was to take him on. How reckless. Yet there was something about him, something that made him seem more than a scrawny boy with a quick mouth, that gave him the fearless look in his eyes as he took up Arthur's challenge. Ever since he was old enough to hold a weapon, Arthur has been taught that strength means muscle and sinew, that power comes from endless hours spent repeating movements until his body could remember them, from the flanks of his horse and the links in his armour. Arthur tightens his hold around Merlin's narrow shoulders, feeling the bumps of his spine under his hand, and wonders: Perhaps his strength lies elsewhere.  
  
    In the middle of this thought he feels Merlin slip his hand up his side and into his armpit, leaving a cold trail in its wake. The touch feels more intimate than it should, under the circumstances. A shiver runs through Merlin's body, making Arthur try and hold him still.  
  
    “Come on, Merlin,” he murmurs, rubbing his palm up and down his back.  
  
    Merlin's face is very close to his. His lips have a bluish tint that makes Arthur uneasy. Unthinking, he bends his head to press his own lips against Merlin's. It only makes sense to lend him whatever warmth he can.  
  
    When he pulls away, Merlin responds with a barely audible sigh and his eyes open just enough for the firelight to reflect off them. Strangely, it makes them look almost golden. Then his eyelids fall shut again. Soon Merlin stops shivering and gradually grows mellow against Arthur, his skin beginning to glow with returning body heat. Arthur listens to his breathing becoming even and easy and lets himself drift off.  
  
    When he wakes up in pale morning light still wrapped tightly around Merlin, his first thought is the memory of a cool, soft kiss. The air is crisp, a blackbird is singing somewhere near. Merlin's head is tucked against Arthur's shoulder, the steady flow of his warm breath creating goosebumps on Arthur's skin.  
  
    Lying there with his skinny servant in his arms on a blanket smelling of horses, Arthur finds himself sleepily wondering what Merlin’s lips might feel like all warm and responsive.  
  
    A crow takes off from a bush with a sharp cry. The horses stir. No longer half asleep, Arthur quickly banishes the question from his head. Alarmed by his own rampant thoughts and the way his body seems to be reacting to such close proximity to a now-warm Merlin, Arthur disentangles himself from his limbs, as slowly and carefully as if he were trying to escape the clutches of a sleeping dragon.  
  
    Merlin draws his arms against his chest, curling himself into a ball under the cloak until all Arthur can see is the top of his head and the tip of his nose. His black hair has dried into an impossible shape and is sticking up ridiculously in every direction. Arthur reaches out with the intention of running his fingers through it, then withdraws his hand at the last second. He shakes himself mentally. Maybe the magic of the lake caused temporary insanity as well.  
  
    Before Merlin wakes up, Arthur has several moments to lull himself into thinking that he won't remember the kiss, and that with a bit of forceful effort Arthur will be able to erase the entire night from his memory too.  
  
    He is fastening the saddle cloth on his horse as Merlin sits on a rock, back in his own dried clothes and wrapped in Arthur's cloak.  
  
    “Arthur?” Merlin's voice behind him is slightly hoarse, whispery.  
  
    “What is it, Merlin?”  
  
    “Did you kiss me last night?”  
  
    Arthur's hands stop of their own volition, leaving a knot half-tied. He turns around slowly. Merlin is looking at him inquisitively, a little crease between his brows.  
  
    With a hint of panic, Arthur realises his answer is already late. He puts on what he hopes to be his best _you must have been dropped on your head as a baby_ expression anyway, and says:  
  
    “Why in the world would I ever want to kiss you, Merlin?”  
  
    Merlin deliberates on this for what feels like an eternity, gazing thoughtfully at the ground and picking lint off Arthur's cloak.  
  
    “No.” Merlin finally shakes his head, a careful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No, I definitely think you kissed me,” he says and smirks at Arthur.  
  
    “I think you got brain damage from the cold,” mutters Arthur, but he doesn't sound very convincing even to himself.  
  
    To Arthur's relief, Merlin doesn't press the issue any further. Occasionally glancing at Arthur from the corner of his eye, however, he smiles all the way back to Camelot.  
  



End file.
